My Sweet Prince
by lumaluma
Summary: Sick and tired of putting up with Arthur's alcoholism and drug use, Francis finally decides to confront him about it, with lasting consequences for the both of them. M for drug use, mentions of sex, language, and general angst.


_Apparently, I've been going through a bit of an angst streak, lately. But this does have a happy ending, so I hope I made up for it that way!_

_Warnings: mentions of drug use, eating disorders, a bit of bad poetry, and general angst._

* * *

It wasn't all that long ago that they were happy, Francis mused, blowing a thin stream of cigarette smoke into the cool, early spring air. He tugged at the collar of his itchy, poorly-made polo shirt, the uniform of the grocery store he was working at. For the moment. He didn't know how much longer he'd have the job for, to tell the truth. His near-constant need to smoke made it difficult for him to hold down a job, and his employers never understood that he smoked because it stopped him from wanting to eat. He didn't eat anymore. Not since the man who was Arthur but also wasn't told him he looked like a fucking whale. Francis knew Arthur wouldn't say that kind of thing, but this other Arthur, the one who was always surfing on some kind of chemical high, he said all kinds of things.

That was what happened when Arthur used from his own stock. He had started out just selling but got sucked into it when alcohol alone didn't detach him enough from the world. Francis didn't really need the cigarettes. He just used them as something to keep himself busy when he was sitting alone on the couch late at night, not wanting to be around Arthur when he was shooting up or drinking himself stupid. Sometimes both.

They fought a lot more than they used to, when the bills racked up and they couldn't pay. Arthur blamed Francis, and Francis blamed Arthur. They fought and fought and fought, constantly yelling at each other and filling the already sad apartment they lived in with even more distress.

When Francis went back inside after his smoke break, his manager gave him a disapproving look. Well, it seemed like he wouldn't be working here much longer. Francis hesitated to tell Arthur that when he got home that evening, but he didn't have much of a choice. Arthur was stone-cold sober for once, paying attention to Francis for the first time in a long time. "So, how was work?" he asked.

Francis shrugged. "My boss thinks I smoke too much."

"Don't lose this one, Francis. We need to make rent this month."

"Maybe if you stopped wasting all our money on cheap scotch and actually did your job instead of sitting around and getting high, we could make rent." It was a tired, well-worn argument. Arthur would glare at Francis before accusing him of wasting all their money on cigarettes, and then they'd make jabs at each other until they got too tired. Then Arthur would go off to the bedroom and shoot up, and Francis would sleep on the couch. This routine had happened for months on end now.

But this time, something new happened in the middle of their argument. Arthur grabbed Francis' shoulders to make a point, and then stopped mid-insult to stare at Francis, mouth agape. Apparently, he had been too busy getting high and drunk to notice Francis' deteriorating state. "Oh my god," he breathed, and forced Francis' shirt over his head. He looked at Francis, _really _looked at him, for the first time in months. "When did this happen?" Francis shrugged, looking away, and Arthur felt his ribs. "This can't be healthy. How did I not notice? God, you need to eat something."

"I'm fine. I'm not hungry."

"Not hungry, my arse! If you don't eat, I'm going to force-feed you." Arthur ran off to their kitchenette to heat up a can of soup. "How long has it been since you've eaten properly, anyways?"

"I don't know."

"Too fucking long, that's for sure."

Arthur made Francis sit at the kitchen table and eat the whole can of soup. Then he leaned his head against Francis' chest, telling him he _needed_ to start eating again. It was scary, seeing him like that. Francis apologised, though he didn't really know what he was apologising for.

It was the first night in a long time that they stopped fighting and actually talked, and when it got late, Francis actually joined Arthur in the bedroom. Sure, the mattress was lumpy and the sheets a little bit scratchy, but it was comforting to have Arthur's body next to him. The real Arthur, the sober Arthur, the one who wasn't feeding his addictions. Francis lay across Arthur's chest, the first actual affection they had shown each other in long time. For once, Francis left his carton of cigarettes in the other room and reveled in simply being there with Arthur. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend things were back to how they used to be.

"Hey," Arthur murmured. "Go get some of your poetry. I haven't heard any in a long time."

Francis decided not to mention that the other Arthur had thrown it out the window in one of his fits, in between telling Francis he was stupid and worthless and locking him out of the bedroom. "I threw it out," he said.

Arthur frowned. "What for?"

"It was pointless and bad."

"I liked it," Arthur mumbled, kissing Francis' cheek.

Francis sighed. "I can always write more, you know."

"Well then, can you compose one off the top of your head for me?" Arthur smiled at Francis, and there was no way he could refuse that.

"I'll try. But don't be surprised if it's absolute shit."

"You couldn't come up with something shitty if you tried."

Francis smirked. The other Arthur certainly didn't think so. But this was his Arthur, and he loved everything Francis did. "It's nice that you think that." Francis cleared his throat. "I never knew how much it'd mean to me,

When you'd hold me in your arms.

It was all you, only you, speaking those words,

Nothing but the two of us in our little world.

I miss those times, to tell the truth.

But you haven't been back in so long, and

I wish things weren't like this, and

If only you'd touch me, and

If only you'd love me, and

If only you'd hold me, and…

I wish I could have you, again."

Coming up with poems on the spot was always difficult, and it ended up a little disjointed and clumsy, and a little too honest.

Arthur actually understood what it was about, for once. He knew he'd been relying on the drugs a lot lately, but he hadn't realised how distant he'd become from Francis. He was too caught up in the false, chemical happiness to love Francis the way he should've, too far gone to notice his lover falling apart. Arthur looked Francis over for a moment. He looked much older than he used to, those bags under his eyes prominent and his once-beautiful hair thinned and dull. His eyes no longer held that playful sparkle and his voice had lost that edge of constantly being near laughter. He was so thin, so exhausted, and he looked like he had been in prison or something. Arthur bit his lip, wondering if the life they were living was the prison Francis was in. It certainly felt that way to him sometimes. He sat up a bit, considering getting up and grabbing the bottle of scotch from the kitchen counter.

Just then, Francis sighed and murmured something nearly unintelligible, but that sounded an awful lot like, "I can't do this anymore."

Arthur ran a hand through Francis' hair. "What do you mean?"

"I'm miserable, Arthur. We live in a dump, we don't have a cent to our name, you're never home anymore, and when you are, you're either drunk or high and you're not yourself. You're some false version of yourself brought on by these chemicals. You know what I call that man? I call him 'the other Arthur' because he's not you."

Arthur reflexively covered up the holes in his arms. "I… didn't know you felt that way."

"Of course you didn't," Francis spat bitterly. He sighed. "I never thought we'd end up this way. Didn't we used to be happy? Back before you started needing something to take you away from the reality of life. I remember when you started drinking. It was right after your brother committed suicide. You blamed yourself, and hid from that guilt."

Arthur swallowed. Francis was right about that.

"Your evening drinking turned into week-long binges that lost you your job. Then when you started working on the streets, you got into the harder stuff. I lost you when you started that."

Arthur flinched when Francis mentioned that.

"Don't you remember how happy we were before all that happened? We used to make love every night, and it was never bitter. It was actually out of love, because we wanted to. Now, we never touch each other unless we really have to." Francis ran a finger up and down Arthur's navel, emphasizing his point. Arthur's abs tightened slightly under the lazy movements of Francis' finger. "I miss those days. You were yourself back then, not this ghost of the man you used to be."

Arthur just sat there, listening to Francis, knowing that every word that he said was true.

"Do you remember," Francis murmured, "When you used to call me your love, your poppet, your sweet prince? Now what do you say? When you're yourself, you barely say a word to me. You're too tired. When you're the other Arthur, you call me a whore, a bastard, a stupid, ugly, fat, pathetic excuse for a man."

Arthur sat up. "I don't remember ever saying any of that." Francis looked away again, and Arthur held him close. "That wasn't me, Francis. I swear. I wouldn't ever say anything like that!"

"I know," Francis said, shaking his head. "I know. It was the drugs, it was the drink. That doesn't change the fact that it got to me after long enough."

Arthur cradled Francis in his arms. "I'm so, so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. I didn't mean any of that, I promise. I love you more than anything in the world."

"If that's so, then you have to stop. Stop drinking. Stop shooting up." Francis took Arthur's hand and brought it up to his face, kissing each of Arthur's knuckles. "You need to stop trying to hide behind a veil of chemicals and false emotions."

"Putting it like that… you always were the poetic one," Arthur murmured.

When he didn't say anything else for a moment, Francis closed his eyes. "I'm serious, Arthur. If you don't stop, I'm leaving. And if I leave, I won't be coming back. I suppose I'll just go on like this." He gestured to himself. "Living off of cigarettes and water until there's nothing left."

He felt Arthur's shoulders start to shake, but it took him a moment to realise Arthur was crying. He looked up and saw the tears running down his lover's face, and had absolutely no idea what to do or say. Arthur hadn't cried since his brother's funeral. Arthur pulled Francis even closer, pressing a kiss into Francis' neck. "I'll give everything up. I'd lose everything in the world before I lost you. If I lost you, I… I don't know what I'd do. Curl up and die, probably."

Francis turned his head to the side and kissed Arthur. It had been so long since they shared a tender, loving kiss like that. Far too long. Arthur was still shaking slightly as he cradled Francis, holding him like he was some fragile, precious thing. Francis realised that Arthur was finally holding him like he loved him again. "We have to leave," he whispered.

"I know. But where can we go?"

"Somewhere far away. It doesn't matter where."

They packed what few belongings they had and left, getting on a train. When they were offered drinks, Arthur only took a cup of tea. Francis had thrown his cigarettes away at the entrance to the train station, too. They decided they didn't need anything but each other anymore. At lunchtime, Francis took a sandwich out of his bag. This was going to be the first time in about a month that he had eaten bread, and at first, it felt dry and tough to swallow. But after the first bite, when he looked up and saw Arthur smiling widely at him, he forced the whole thing down. Why had he ever doubted what Arthur felt about his appearance? Of course he loved Francis no matter how he looked. It wasn't ever him talking when he was like that, it was always someone else. Not his Arthur. His Arthur was the man who took Francis' hand when he had finished eating and whispered, "Thank you."

Francis found he didn't care where they ended up as long as he could have his Arthur again.

As it turned out, the train they were on took them to Paris, and from there, they took another train to a smaller city, and then still another train to yet another smaller city. Francis had never been to this part of his own country before, but that didn't matter. What better place to start over than somewhere new?

It wasn't easy, but they made it, and within only a few years' time, Arthur was running a good-sized international language bookstore. Francis helped him during the week and taught French to immigrants who wanted to learn the language on the weekends. They spoke a mixture of English and French at home, Arthur finally motivated to learn French properly. He had been extremely embarrassed at the farmers' market when he couldn't buy lettuce, so when he got home, he asked Francis to give him some basic lessons. Francis was happy to, obviously.

Francis had taken up writing poetry again, in both English and French. His collections had been published in English-speaking and French-speaking nations around the world, and he made a tidy profit off of them. Arthur never drank more than a glass of wine or two with dinner, and had never once been tempted to go out and find someone he could get a hit from. Francis no longer shook from nicotine withdrawal, and after he started cooking again, he gained back the weight he had lost. Every day, he could look in the mirror and find something that had improved. Arthur still smiled widely whenever he saw Francis eating, and now, when he saw Francis shirtless, he didn't look worried. In fact, he blushed and averted his eyes a lot of the time, until Francis told him he didn't have to look away.

Their life was more or less back to how it used to be. Francis never slept on the couch anymore, but spent every night wrapped in Arthur's arms. They would kiss and hold hands and make love, always out of actual desire and not some strange sense of obligation.

One Saturday, as Francis was walking home from the school where he was teaching French, his mobile phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket. "_Oui?_"

"Francis, be a dear and stop by the bakery on your way home, will you? We're almost out of bread."

"Of course, _mon amour_. Would you like me to pick up some dessert while I'm at it?"

"Oh, why not. I've been tempted by the _mille-feuille_ in the bakery cases for days."

"All right. I'm on my way home now."

"I'll see you soon, my sweet prince."

Francis hung up and smiled at his phone before tucking it back into his pocket. Arthur hadn't called him that for years.

They finally got their happily ever after, it seemed, even though it certainly took them long enough. As Francis passed by a homeless man on his way to the bakery, he thought about how that could've been him, if Arthur hadn't given everything up. He stopped and slipped a twenty-euro bill into the man's hand before going on his way, not saying a word. He would've wanted someone to do that for him if he had ended up like that.

When he got home, a loaf of bread tucked under one arm and a pastry box in his hand, Arthur came over to kiss him. "Hello, love. How was your day?"

"Better than I thought."

Francis smiled. Sure, things weren't perfect, but they were good enough. He and Arthur were happy again, and that was all that mattered.

* * *

_Thank you for reading! As always, any and all feedback is greatly appreciated._


End file.
